


Frames of Reference

by megyal



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi AU set during LFoDH. Gabriel makes some suggestive remarks re: John & Matt's relationship to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frames of Reference

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/txilar/profile)[**txilar**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/txilar/) for the quick readover; any other mistakes are definitely my own.

Among all the shit Gabriel spouts off as he holds his gun to John's head, one thing sticks a bit more than the rest.

"Running all over the place with a hacker kid like that," Gabriel says, his voice a low, harsh growl. His arm curls around John's neck even tighter, making him struggle for air. "Makes a person wonder, you know. Some kind of mid-life crisis, McClane? The divorce is working out for you, I have to say."

"Blah, blah, blah, " John mutters, twisting so that he can elbow Gabriel in the side, trying to free himself, but Gabriel shifts and digs the gun harder into the wound in John's shoulder. John grunts in pain.

"Didn't know he was your type, McClane," Gabriel says, mockingly and John feels angry confusion rise up in him. What the fuck was this dickhead on? "But I guess I can see it. He's got that mouth on him, at least and he's all for it too, I bet. He's got a thing for authority, no matter what he says."

Matt is sprawled on his ass nearby, staring at them with wide, frightened eyes. He's biting his lower lip, and John feels something tight clench up in his chest. Jesus, he hopes he isn't having some kind of heart-attack. Lucy is yelling something, John can't hear exactly what, but she's still struggling with the asshole who has her restrained. She's a fighter, that one. Matt...he doesn't know about Matt, he doesn't know the kid that well at all, but John's not really going to wait on him to do something. Not when he looks so damned scared.

"What--" John tries to croak out, trying to get a bit more time, hopefully Bowman will swoop in with the fucking Calvary, but Gabriel cuts in.

"I'll kill your daughter first," he promises. "It won't hurt, much. I don't think so," he says, laughing crudely when John tries to lurch out of his grip. "Ah, ah, ah, none of that, now. Farrell?" Gabriel hums, a relaxed, contemplative sound. "I might have some use for him, before I have to get rid of him. He's a smart kid." Gabriel's voice drops down to a whisper. "Maybe if you had more time, you could see just how smart he can get, right?"

John bares his teeth, tasting blood in his mouth; it's from a cut on his lip from a previous struggle with one of Gabriel's henchmen. That's John's life, one fight to another.

"Alright." Gabriel is brisk now. "Let's get this over with."

"The fuck you will," John says, lurching forward again, nearly breaking out of Gabriel's hold. Gabriel barely manages to haul him back, pressing the mouth of the gun to John's injured shoulder.

"You didn't have to be a part of this, Detective McClane," he says. "You could have just let the hacker get what he deserved. Then you and your lovely daughter here, you'd be...well, alive. You're probably going to get 'always in the wrong place at the wrong time' written on your tombstone."

Not if I put you under your own tombstone first, John thinks, but all he can say is, "How about 'yippie-ki-yay', motherfucker," and then he grabs Gabriel's hand, pushes it forward so that the warm barrel of the gun grinds more into the jagged entrance of his wound. It hurts like fuck, especially when he angles it down and hopes that the bullet doesn't smash up too much bone and muscle.

 _Yippie-ki-yay_ indeed; the sensation of the bullet going through and out of his shoulder, and into Gabriel is both excruciating and exhilarating at the same time. When Gabriel's hands stiffen, then relax before falling away, John knows the angle was the best one. He turns around, intending to throw his exhausted body at the man that has Lucy pinned, and another gunshot rings out, so close that it makes his ears ring. John glances down at himself, fully expecting to see a blooming patch of red on his stomach or chest, spreading before the pain hits him like a train.

There's nothing, and when he looks up again, that hacker-kid Farrell is barely holding onto a gun, and the guy who had been holding Lucy drops to his knees before falling on his face.

He really knows nothing about the kid...but Farrell just saved his life.

\--

"What...what do you think Gabriel was talking about?" Farrell asks him when they're sitting in the ambulance just a few minutes later, just a few steps away from pain and dead bodies. John barely hears him, he's staring at his daughter sitting in the back of another ambulance across the way. She looks brave and vulnerable all at once; when she looks up and smiles, John is struck by how much like her mother she is. She's gonna give him a heart-attack, though, if she keeps raising her eyebrows suggestively in the hacker kid's direction.

"McClane?" The kid's voice is slurred, and when John turns his head to look at him, he's gazing up and his expression is soft, unfocused. "Gabriel. He was talking about...me and you?"

"You heard that, huh," John says, keeping his tone very level. Farrell is pretty medicated now, and his kneecap is fucked up, so he's probably having a hard time focusing on John's words. "He was just talking shit. They always do."

"Always?" Farrell muses, dragging his way through the letters of the word very slowly and then blinks up at him. John stares back, at a mottled bruise-mark high on his cheek-bone. "But...but, he was saying stuff. What did he mean? It was like he was talking about me being...and you. Don't even know you, I met you like yesterday..." His voice trailed out and he sighed. "What the fuck was he talking about?"

John is teetering on some kind of jagged precipice, when he looks at the kid's brown eyes. He feels like he's getting angry, but it's not an anger he's ever felt before. The EMT is moving far too slowly as he works on Farrell's wounds, hovering around them like a curious butterfly. John wants him to go away, but he's patching up the kid, so he's pretty necessary.

"Forget it," he says; grunts it out, really.

"But--"

"I said forget it."

Farrell purses out his lips and then exhales loudly through them. "Okay. Forgotten." He smiles, a weak effort. "Thanks again, man."

"Same to you." John shifts around a bit, ignoring the way his shoulder throbs in a muted manner. "You did good, Farrell."

The way Farrell's face goes red is kind of intriguing. It starts at his cheeks, making his bruise stand out even more, and trails down his face and neck. He licks his lips and John stands up abruptly, turning away.

"Ow," Farrell complains behind him.

"Take care of yourself," John says, walking off as fast as he can without looking as if he's running away.

\--

John only hears about the kid again through Lucy, and is unsure if he's allowed to make threats to someone who saved his life. He crosses paths with Farrell a little over six months later, when the powers-that-be manage to get themselves put together enough to start their inquiries into the Fire Sale. Farrell is coming out of an interview with a committee, and John's waiting to go in for his turn to be asked the same stupid questions, over and over again.

Farrell's hair looks as floppy as ever. John wonders, irritably, if hacker-types have an aversion to getting a hair-cut or something. At least he's wearing something presentable: dark trousers and long-sleeved checkered shirt. He's leaning heavily on a gleaming metal cane.

"McClane," he says, sounding flustered. He runs a hand through his hair, and it ends sticking out at crazy angles. "Hey, uh--"

"How's the leg?" John cuts in, tilting his head and glances down at the limb in question. Farrell looks down at it too, and shrugs when their gazes meet again.

"It's still on me, that's a good thing, right?" He grins and John has to look away; he needs to check if they're ready for him, that's all.

"McClane?"

"Yeah?"

"You want to get some lunch after? Your interview, I mean."

"I might be in there for awhile." John sighs when a man with a very stern expression and an even more severe crew-cut opens the door to the interview-room and jerks his chin at them; John actually knows the guy, some officious general. He's going to be the one riding John's ass the most, and then thank him for his service to his country afterwards.

Farrell says, "John, I'll pay," and maybe it's how he says John's name or the fact that he's using the first name and not saying 'McClane' that seems to freeze John right where he stands. "I'm getting paid by the government now," the kid goes on, sounding too full of self-mockery to notice John's stillness. Then he _does_ notice, and his voice goes even quieter: "Come on. It's just lunch, right?"

"Sure." John manages to shake himself together and strides off in the direction of the now-impatient general, glancing over his shoulder at Farrell's hopeful expression. "Like you said, kid, you're paying."

"Lieutenant Detective," the general says, disapproval dripping from every syllable. John figures that guys like this disapprove of everything on principle, so he just nods, and steps inside, prepared to run this verbal gauntlet.

He's had tons of practice, anyway.

\--

Farrell takes him to a steakhouse, a comfortable-looking restaurant with lots of gleaming wooden paneling on the walls and overhead, and an homage to birds, what with paintings on the wall depicting mostly seagulls in flight, and a few fake geese suspended overhead. They get a table away from the front entry, and John sits where he can see people going in and out; watching their faces, their hands, gauging their moods.

The waiter comes over and takes their order. "Sorry about the noise," he says, motioning to a large group seated in the opposite corner, a mass of loud parents and even louder children. "It's not usually this loud."

"It's fine," John says when he hands back the menu. "That's how kids are, right?"

"Were your kids like that?" Farrell takes a sip of water and makes a face at it. "Wow, I hate water."

John laughs, and is surprised at the way the sound falls from his lips naturally. He hasn't laughed in awhile. "Kid, you hate water?"

"Tastes funny," Farrell says, but he tries some more of it. "My mother's on my case about drinking more water, though."

"You moved back in with your parents." It's not a question at all; John was there when Farrell's place was reduced to so many small pieces. Farrell's shoulders twitch in a small shrug.

"They don't mind. It's been...cool."

"Cool," John repeats softly, grinning and Farrell smiles widely in return. For a kid who was just over the line into criminal-territory, he has a great smile.

John makes sure to take that thought and lock it within a reinforced mental vault.

"You didn't answer, though. About your kids. Were they like that?"

When John says, "I think so. I don't really know," he says it with a sadness that has been tempered with the fact that his daughter is talking to him again, and calling herself McClane. He doesn't know if Farrell hears that emotion, maybe he doesn't, but the kid nods.

"I think Lucy would have been the kind of kid that would tell everyone else to sit down and shut up."

John tilts his head back and laughs some more. Yeah, that sounds about right; from what Holly used to tell him, calling him in exasperation (the only time she would call him was when exasperated), Lucy had had a real smart mouth. Just like the kid.

Gabriel's mocking voice rose up in his mind: _He's got that mouth on him_ , and John just looks at Farrell almost helplessly.

Farrell bites his bottom lip and then leans forward, speaking almost under his breath, "Look, about what Gabriel said...I keep thinking about it."

"You don't need to." John matches the pitch of his voice. "It was nothing."

Farrell's gaze searches his face, and he makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. "Not to you, right, yeah, but. It's..." He seems to run into a conversational wall and slumps back in the padded seat, sighing. "McClane. I never worried about dying until I wasn't around you. During the Fire Sale, I mean."

"It's called gratitude," John tells him.

"You made me feel safe." Farrell looks down on his hands, clasped together on the surface of the table. John feels hot and cold inside at the same time. "And I was thinking, what Gabriel said--"

"Look, kid," John says, putting a no-nonsense edge to his voice, because this is not going where he thinks it might go. It shouldn't; it won't, not matter what part of his brain seems interested. "This is how it works: bad guys, they like to talk, and most of the time, they're just talking shit. Got that?"

Farrell appears annoyed, which is kind of surprising, and he opens his mouth to say something. John has never been so glad to see platters of ribs and onion rings, for the waiter places their food in front of them in that moment, and bids them to enjoy their meal.

They eat in silence, but John doesn't really taste the food. Every now and then, he glances up from his plate and finds Matt's dark gaze fixed on him.

"Thanks for the grub," John says when they're done eating and Farrell pays the waiter, leaving a nice tip, nice enough that the waiter smiles at them widely as they're leaving. The waiter even goes as far as to follow them to hold open the door for them so that Farrell can limp through. When he smiles at Farrell, and Farrell smiles back, John feels a heavy weight burning in his chest, and it's so present and wrong that John spends a few moments just blinking at the late afternoon sun as they stand outside, stunned at something that he can't explain.

"So, see you around," Farrell says, and John turns to look at him. "It's really good to see you, McClane. Really."

"You called me John before," John says and he really has no idea where the fuck that came from. Farrell's eyebrows twitch upwards, and then the corner of his lips quirk into a faint smile.

"Yeah? I guess I did. Strong, dependable name, it's easy to call, I guess. You mind?" Farrell peers at him, and the small smile grows a little wider when John shakes his head.

"No, Matt," he answers and it's gratifying when the kid--Matt--grins. "It ain't a problem."

"Good. So...right. I'll see you, if I see you." Matt steps back, and then turns again, a jerky movement that causes him to lurch a bit, out of balance on his bad knee. He sways and John reaches out, grabbing onto his elbow.

"Hey, watch it." He waits until Matt seems steady enough, watching him narrowly. The flash of pain that had taken residence in Matt's face is now fading away. "Ready now?" He asks, but while he eases up on the support, he doesn't remove his hand for a few beats too long. He lets go when Matt looks right in his eyes, and nods.

"Thanks, John," Matt murmurs and turns away; John hopes he isn't stressing out his knee too much.

He only realises that he's standing there, just watching the kid walk off, when Matt looks back over his shoulder and smiles.

\--

Someone leans on John's doorbell at about half-past Far Too Fucking Early that Sunday morning; John had just got up a few moments before, brushing his teeth, washing his face and wishing he hadn't let Casey talk him into staying a few hours more at the bar last night. He'd had one diet-soda and had been thirsting for maybe sixty beers, and so he'd left before the thirst could get any stronger. John considers pretending that he's not in, but the person keeps on buzzing. He dries his face and reaches for a tattered, stretched-out undershirt that may have seen its hey-day in Holly's era, yelling, "Yeah, coming!" He hitches up his boxers and pulls open the door without disengaging the security-chain.

There's this dislocating sense of _déjà vu_ when he sees Matt standing outside his door, finger still resting on the buzzer. He wonders if he should call himself Daisy, and the small smile on Matt's face indicates that he's probably thinking the same thing.

"Hey," John rasps out, and pushes the door shut to take off the chain and open it again. Matt's gaze tracks down his body quickly and John stands away, letting him in. They stand there in the narrow entry, too close and not moving away.

"So," John says, folding his arm across his chest. His injured shoulder mutters a pained complaint, but it's not any worse than anything he's had to deal with. "How'd you find me?"

"I logged on to CopTracker dot com." Matt leans against the nearest wall. "And looked under the listing for Ten Most Destructive. You're near the top, by the way. Right under Robocop."

"Really." John keeps his tone flat, mainly because he's not sure if Matt is serious or not. One can never tell with this techie-types.

"Or, I just asked Lucy."

John huffs out an amused breath. "What do you want?"

At that question, Matt seems to lose quite a great deal of his cocky good-humour, and looks at everywhere except John's face. "I keep thinking about what Gabriel said--"

John turns on his heel and just walks away; he keeps doing that to Matt, and he can't seem to help it. It's a fucking cowardly thing to do, but he can't seem to help it. He goes to the kitchen, not that far in the grand scheme of things, but he just had to move. The kid follows him, the clomp-step-clomp of his feet and cane a hurried beat against the worn carpeting.

"What did I say about that?" John asks, calm as anything; he busies himself with the filter and grounds for the coffee-maker, and snaps on the switch, before turning around to face Matt again, hands braced up on the counter behind him. "You really shouldn't think about that." Kind of hypocritical on his part to tell Matt that; he had been thinking about it every day. Thinking about what Gabriel might have meant by Matt's mouth.

Matt shakes his head. "You think I want to think about that?" he says, the pitch of his voice rising and gaining a sharp edge that John has never heard before, not even when Matt was hyperventilating and whining about his asthma. "I want it like how I want a bullet through my knee, John, so. I dunno, give me some fucking credit."

The coffeemaker begins its ritualistic hiss and drip; the strong scent fills John's small kitchen, but all of his attention was resting on Matt.

"Let's be clear on something," John says, still speaking softly even though he wants to shout. He wants to break something; he wants to shoot something. His fingers twitch and he presses them against the underside of the counter's edge. "Let's me and you be perfectly clear on what we're talking about."

"You know what I'm talking about." Matt looks disgruntled. "You and me."

"You and me what?"

"I don't know!" Matt bursts out. "I don't have a fucking frame of reference!"

"Well, maybe you should," John says, and he hates the way he sounds, cold and uncaring. "Or get one that's not me."

Matt opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again, eyes big on his face. He starts to nod and smile, and both actions are wavering and ghastly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, McClane. John. Right, going now." He makes a half-turn, pivoting on his cane like a pro. John's body dissents from his brain, because in a moment, he's by Matt's side, one hand supporting the closest elbow. Matt shakes him off and steps back, cheeks flaming and gaze scornful. "Hands off, man."

John reaches up and puts a hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him in. He's not sure what's allowed, and is almost completely distracted by the way Matt's hair feels against the back of his hand. Matt goes still, almost pliant. John kind of hates that; he doesn't know what to do. It's awkward, and when he puts his other hand on Matt's hip, it feels so weird, but he keeps on pulling and Matt shifts forward willingly, closer and closer.

Matt tilts his chin up and they're breathing each other's air for a few beats. John closes his eyes and feels the warm rhythm of soft breaths, then the press of Matt's mouth, trembling slightly against his. John's done this before; this part is easy, at least: moving his lips and and coaxing Matt's to part, tongue flickering inside Matt's mouth.

Matt makes a soft sound, head angling further to one side and they're kissing properly now; there is a soft clunk as Matt drops his cane, and John feels both his hands grasp the straps of his undershirt. They had been holding their bodies apart, and when Matt finally arches against him, John can feel the solid, warm length of his cock pressing against the side of his thigh.

The awareness of this causes John's skin to prickle and his stomach to twist in knots. Vaguely, he thinks he should stop, but he can't. Matt is the one that pulls away first, and as they breathe hard they realize that Matt has managed to work both his hands underneath John's shirt, palms hot against the sparse hairs on John's chest; for his part, John's hands had moved down to rest on Matt's hips, pushing up the hem of the t-shirt in their own search for skin.

Removing their hands from each other's body is supremely awkward and regrettable at the same time. Matt glances around for his cane and John bends down for it, coming face to face with the bulge in Matt's jeans.

"I gotta go home," Matt says, his voice strangled as John rises to his feet and hands him the cane. "I--"

John says, "Camden is two hours away," and Matt actually laughs at that.

"I know."

John settles into a decision, as uneasy and as right as any decision should be. He reaches for Matt again, taking him by one hand and leads him slowly to his bedroom.

\--

The morning passes with aching slowness, the blinds slicing beams of sunlight into regular bands that travel down the walls of John's room. John has someone in his bed for the first time in ages, a _man_ he wants to have there; a naked man half his age and pressing against him with a needy shyness that echoes his own.

Matt's hand is hot and slick on him, just as how his had been moving over Matt's cock a few minutes ago; it had been long and smooth in his hand, familiar and unfamiliar. Traces of Matt's come are still sticky on his fingers, even though he had wiped his hand on the material of his boxers. The smell of sex is heady in the air, mixed with that of unconsumed coffee drifting in from the kitchen.

They lie beside each other, John reclining on his back and Matt leaning against him, over him; it seems to be the best position for his knee. His hand is down John's boxers, jerking him off in a way that John really likes. John kisses him, both hands cupping Matt's face. There is sharp stubble against his palms, and Matt's body is angular and sweaty against his. John feels an uncertain relief in the front of his mind; he tries to focus on this as he comes, panting hard against Matt's mouth, too far gone now to kiss properly.

He slumps back against the propped-up pillows, trying to get his breath back. When he opens his eyes, Matt is looking down at him, a contemplative expression on his face.

"Don't talk," John warns when Matt opens his mouth, and closes his eyes again. "This is. I don't know."

Matt remains silent. He shifts beside John, grunting softly at the movement of his knee; he's probably lying face-down. He isn't leaving, and John is okay with that. He's okay with that.

John shifts his hand over, touching the side of Matt's hand with his.

"Got your frame of reference, yet?" John asks, low and soft. Matt doesn't answer, but his fingers twitch and grip John's, lightly, before moving away.

 _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I used a prompt from [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hard4brains/profile)[**hard4brains**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hard4brains/): _Semi AU set during LFoDH. Gabriel makes some suggestive remarks re: John & Matt's relationship to one another (or questions their sexuality), which they brush off until after the fire sale, and when angrily addressing it they discover there is some truth to what Gabriel said: they are attracted to one another._ It was posted [here](http://hard4brains.livejournal.com/51805.html). I didn't follow it too closely, though.


End file.
